


cruel summer

by bazzystar



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar
Summary: Billy's not dead, somehow, so now Steve has to confront his feelings. And possibly also the Mind Flayer. Again.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 24
Kudos: 79





	1. you know that i bought it

The bell above the door jingles and Steve’s turned around, standing on the ladder trying to put away ten VHS’s at once because he hates making multiple trips, and he yells, “Welcome to Family Video, be with you in just a second,” and the guy who’s just opened the door says, “No rush, baby,” and something about the low burr of his voice sends a jolt up Steve’s spine and he looks over his shoulder just a bit too quickly and then he falls off the ladder.

His eyes focus first on the bitten fingernails, the stack of bracelets, travel up the arm and then he’s having a concussion-induced flashback, apparently, because he’s lying there on his back with the wind knocked out of him and Billy Hargrove is standing above him, waiting to help him up.

“Sorry about that,” Billy says with a smile. Steve reaches up to grab his hand. The feeling—the _memory—_ of being here before is wrestling with the feeling that something is distinctly not right. He stands and Billy’s the same height as always, just a little bit too tall for someone to rest their chin on his head. Same aftershave, same stupid earring, same necklace glinting in the too-deep V of bare chest cutting down the front of his shirt. The smile is fading now as he looks at Steve, probably because Steve’s brain is short-circuiting and he’s got no poker face, and he doesn’t even really know what he’s going to say until he says it, and he’s still half-holding Billy’s hand when he does:

“You definitely died,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

Billy rolls his eyes. “You heard about the accident?”

“What?”

“The car accident,” Billy says. He lifts his other arm and Steve sees for the first time that his wrist is splinted. “Out on the highway. They told me I might not remember stuff.”

Steve just stares at him, mouth slightly open. He feels like his head is going to explode.

“I was in a coma for awhile, I guess,” Billy says.

Steve leans forward and scrutinizes his face. “Billy,” he says. His voice is too soft. He tries to make it harsher as he says, “Billy Hargrove.”

“Harrington,” Billy says in a growly, mocking voice. “Are you hiring? The pool’s gonna close in like a month.”

“You need a _job?"_

“Jesus, have you also been in a coma for six weeks, or did you hit the floor harder than I thought?” Billy asks. The corner of his mouth tips up into the smirk Steve always thought of as being reserved for him, and it pulls at something in his ribs like a stitched wound. “Are you concussed?”

He steps closer, his good hand lifting slightly. His eyes are much bluer than they look from a distance. Steve is somehow, despite the protests of his one remaining brain cell, opening his mouth to say something to that effect, but then the door bangs open and Robin breezes in carrying a smoothie. She stops short when she sees Billy, her mouth dropping open.

“Oh, what the fuck,” she breathes. “Are you—”

“Robin,” Steve interrupts. “You remember Billy.”

He widens his eyes at her as far as they’ll go. “He’s been in a coma, and now he’s looking for a job.”

She blinks real slow, one, two, three, times, her eyebrows rising steadily as she does. She doesn’t say anything. She looks from Steve to Billy and back again, then lifts the straw back to her lips and drains half the cup. She closes one eye, then the other.

“Brain freeze,” she says. “Ugh. I’ll get you an application.”

She mouths _WHAT THE FUCK_ at Steve as she walks past him to the front counter. He mouths _I DON'T KNOW,_ flails his arms helplessly and barely misses another of their cardboard cutouts. He feels like he’s running a marathon and his brain has fallen out ten miles back. He feels like he’s on drugs again, bad ones, back in that basement—

Billy’s hand closes on his shoulder. “You should maybe see a doctor,” he says. “You look… not great.”

“I’m okay,” Steve says. He shakes his head the tiniest bit. “Having a weird morning.”

“Here,” Robin says, brandishing a piece of paper triumphantly over her head. “I knew I knew where they were.” She hops over the counter and thrusts it at Billy. “Bring it back when you’re done,” she says.

He cocks his eyebrows, shifts his weight. “Have we met before?”

“Not really,” she says. “Saw you around.”

“That’s a shame,” he purrs. “Maybe we can fix that when you get off work tonight.”

She snorts and then registers his expression. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “Um. No. But thank you. But sorry, no. Sorry.”

Billy gives them an amused, knowing look. “The two of you?”

Robin half-laughs, half-shrieks. “No! No.”

“Said with such horror,” Steve says, clutching at his chest. “It hurts.”

“Sorry, boys,” Robin says with a grin. “The heart doesn’t want what it doesn’t want.”

“Well, if neither of us gets you riled I don’t think anyone ever will,” Billy says, winking at Steve. He feels that wink all the way down into the pit of his stomach and forgets how to talk for a second. Before he can say anything Billy’s walking toward the door, waving the application over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” he says. It’s a pretty passable Schwarzenegger.

Robin waits until he rounds the corner and then flips the OPEN sign over. She locks the door, tests it with a vicious shake, and then turns on him.

“What the fuck,” she hisses, grabbing his shoulders. “What the _fuck!_ What the fuck.”

“I know we were drugged,” he says, “but I am really fuckin’ positive that he died.”

“He wasn’t in a fucking _car accident_ ,” she says. “He—”

“Well,” Steve says. “I did… you know.”

He tries not to think about it. He had been so sure he was about to kill Billy, had resigned himself to it, he was going to save his fucking kids before he thought about himself or anyone else—

“Okay, fine, but then he got _out_ of the car, and then he was in the mall, and he _died in the mall_. He walked away from that fucking crash and you know it.”

Steve rakes his hair back from his face and puts his hands over his eyes.

“What the fuck,” he whispers. The fear he feels is fighting a losing battle with a very stupid emotion that he isn’t willing to acknowledge.

“They never found his body,” Robin says. “Right? After the mall collapsed?”

There’s a pause and then she prods him in the side. “Steve. Right?”

He lowers his hands. “Yeah.”

She’s talking to herself, eyes closed, pacing in a circle as she thinks. “So maybe they grabbed him, stuck him in a lab somewhere. Maybe the tunnels below the mall. But why?”

She stops. “The Mind Flayer,” she says.

_No._

A dull ache begins behind Steve’s eyes.

“You said it was stuck in the kid, right? Mike?”

“Will,” he says quietly.

“Right, Will, fine, but it was stuck. Maybe it was stuck to Billy.”

“So, what, they were trying to get it out of him? I thought we killed it.”

“Maybe not,” she says quietly. “Maybe—”

There’s a loud slamming sound as Billy tries and fails to open the door. He presses the completed application to the glass and sticks his tongue out, looking too pleased with himself.

“He certainly doesn’t seem flayed,” she says, moving toward the door. “He wasn’t nearly this smiley before.”

“He used to be,” Steve murmurs, sliding off the counter.

* * *

It's the night of the Snow Ball when Steve realizes he might have a thing for Billy Hargrove.

He’s sitting in his car in the parking lot shivering, waiting for Dustin, trying not to think about Nancy and Jonathan pressed together inside. He closes his eyes for what feels like sixty seconds and when he opens them again the Camaro is pulled up alongside his Beemer, and Billy’s propped up on the windshield with his legs spread out across the hood and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, princess,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Steve can barely hear him through the window. “You look chilly.”

He holds up a bottle of something brown and waggles it at him. “You can share, but you have to come out here.”

Steve remembers the feel of his lips splitting between his teeth and Billy’s knuckles. He remembers the blank look in Billy’s eyes as he hit him again and again. He remembers a firm hand on his shoulder and a sharp, feral smile.

He gets out of the car.

Billy shuffles over to the passenger side and Steve wrestles himself onto the Camaro with minimal embarrassment. Once he’s settled Billy holds out the bottle and Steve takes it. Their fingers almost brush. He takes a long drink.

“Wheeler’s in there, huh?” Billy asks, eyes on the school. “You didn’t find another little gal to take?”

“I sort of thought they’d all be going with you,” Steve says, handing back the bottle.

Billy snorts and grins, canines flashing. “Whoops.”

“Why aren’t you? In there, I mean.” The whiskey is burning a smooth line down his throat and into his belly, warming him from the inside, and he wants to talk. He hasn’t talked to someone— _really_ talked—in a long time.

“Do I look like I dance, Harrington?”

“Yes,” Steve says, deadly serious. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man who looks more like he dances. Look at your fucking shirt.”

Billy laughs out loud at that. “You don’t like the shirt?”

The shirt is open almost to his stomach the way it always is, despite the fact that it’s goddamn December, and as Steve’s gaze slides over the pendant resting on his chest he feels even warmer for a moment. He looks back at the school and holds out his hand for the bottle.

“The shirt is fine,” he says after another too-long drink. Billy doesn’t say anything. They sit staring into the dark, the music filtering faintly out of the gym to reach them.

“Neil doesn’t encourage dancing,” Billy says after a few minutes.

“Neil?”

“My father.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Um.”

“‘Just fuck the broad, son, you don’t need to take her out,’” Billy says bitterly. “‘Don’t let me hear you’re out on the town dancing around like some faggot.’”

“Jesus,” Steve says. “Asshole.”

Billy tips the last of the whiskey into his mouth and shrugs. “He let Max go. That’s what matters.”

“Don’t you—” Steve clears his throat. “Don’t you hate Lucas?”

“Who?”

“Her—her boyfriend? I thought—”

“Oh,” Billy says. He slides off the car and opens the passenger door, rummages around for a moment, and comes back up with a pack of cigarettes. He gives it to Steve to hold while he jumps back up onto the hood and resettles himself.

“I don’t hate him,” Billy says. Steve waits. “I just…”

Billy pulls his knees up and sits forward, hunching over his lighter. He stays like that for a second, knees to chest, looking very young and very alone, and then he stretches back out and the illusion is gone.

“I guess I’m jealous,” he says. “She gets to be with the one she wants.”

“And you don’t?”

Steve is genuinely puzzled. Billy doesn’t seem like the kind of person who doesn’t get what he wants. Billy puts the cigarette in his mouth and breathes deep, and his chest hitches slightly as he exhales. Steve has a brief flash of memory, Billy turning to hide a bruise in the locker room, and something clicks into place in his brain.

“Billy,” he says softly. He can’t decide if he wants to touch him, pat him on the arm or the back or something.

“I don’t hate you, either,” Billy says. His face is angled away from Steve, his eyelashes long and dark in the weak glow of the streetlight.

_You jealous of me, too?_

Steve can’t make himself say it, can’t bring himself to joke right now. He knows they’re both a little drunk, but it feels like Billy is telling him something important.

“I don’t think you hate me,” Steve says at last.

“Well, now you know I don’t. So.”

“Well, I don’t hate you,” Steve says. “So.”

Billy smirks, shakes his head like he’s talking to himself, takes the cigarette from his lips and offers it to Steve. The nicotine hits him hard, sending his head spinning, and he leans back on the windshield. He hears Billy chuckle.

“Pussy.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, eyes closed. “I’m enjoying myself.” He takes another drag, relishing the floating feeling, and holds out his hand so Billy can take the cigarette back.

“I’m sorry I hit you.” Billy’s voice is quiet and gravelly with smoke. “I don’t… have an excuse. But I’m sorry.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do with this Billy, this Billy who feels smaller and realer and more fragile than usual, who _apologizes_. He knocks the toe of his sneaker against the side of Billy’s boot, hoping he understands. There’s a long, long pause, so long Steve wonders if he’s fallen asleep or something, and then Billy’s foot taps gently against his. A little thrill races up his spine, a surprisingly strong jolt of happiness, and he cracks open one eye to see Billy smiling.

_Well, shit._

* * *

“He can’t be flayed,” Robin says.

They’re in Steve’s rec room, both ensconced in giant beanbag chairs. She’s got a thing of Twizzlers cradled against her like a baby, and she talks as she bites into another one.

“He was out in the sun,” she says. “He was… normal.”

“Why would they fix him just to let him go?” Steve murmurs.

“Maybe he’s still connected to it,” Robin suggests. “Not flayed, but… connected. Maybe they want to see what he’ll do.”

“Like, if he goes back to the steelworks?”

“Or whatever.” She waves a Twizzler. “Maybe they can’t be sure it’s dead until he’s been normal for awhile.”

Steve puts his hand over his eyes.

“Maybe they brainwashed him,” she says with a little gasp. “Maybe he’s a spy.”

“It can’t always be spies, Robs,” he says. A Twizzler hits him in the forehead and drops down onto his chest.

“I just want you to be careful,” she says. “I saw you look at him.”

She knows, obviously, has known since they got drunk on wine coolers at the quarry and he started asking _casual questions_ about how she knew she liked girls. Robin’s not stupid, which he loves, but in this moment he wants her to be slightly less brilliant so he can pretend he has any secrets from her at all.

“I—” He sighs. “I know.”

“Even before he was a meat puppet for the Mind Flayer he was dangerous.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

Another Twizzler lands in his lap.

“All that being said,” Robin says. “When are you gonna see him?”


	2. what doesn't kill me makes me want you more

He wants Harrington. 

He wants him _bad._

He stands behind the counter, watches him wave his arms around as he describes _Alien_ to a defenseless customer, and he wants to grab his wrists and pin him against something and—

He shakes his head and winces at the spike of pain. He's had a headache since he woke up, basically. His memory is fucked almost as far back as January. He has flashes of things, weird deja vu. 

He can't remember if there was something between them.

He remembers a whispered threat, their faces close together. He remembers playing basketball.

He rubs his eyes and slides another tape into the machine. No one ever rewinds the fucking things.

"Try to look more like you hate it here," Harrington says, leaning on the counter. "I'm not sure everyone's getting it."

Billy narrows his eyes at him and keeps his hand on the VCR. The screen flickers. 

"Have you seen _Alien_?" 

"I sure feel like I have," Billy says, with maybe more bite than is warranted. Harrington flushes and starts to turn away. 

"I haven't," Billy says. 

"You should." He keeps walking. His voice is cool, distant, and Billy knows his feelings are hurt. Billy _cares_ that his feelings are hurt. He jabs the STOP button on the VCR and rips the tape out, cramming it back into its box. 

He remembers wanting to kill him. He remembers avoiding him for a long time after the party, unsure how to explain that it wasn't Steve he was hitting. He got drunk and Neil's voice was louder than anything else in his head and then Harrington swanned by with his fucking hair and Billy couldn't talk to him, couldn't do anything but hate himself. Most days he still can't. Half the time he's sure there's nothing there, was never anything there, just pretty eyes and lips he wants to bite until they bleed. Half the time Harrington's got this haunted look in his eyes that makes Billy want to _hold_ him. He doesn't like it, doesn't want it. He wants to not want him. He wants to go back to California, to be alone and safe and not feel this strange cracking-open feeling he gets when they're alone together. 

He wants him, yeah, but not just to fuck. He wants Harrington to see him. He cares about what he thinks of him. 

It pisses him off so fucking bad. 

* * *

He wakes in a cold sweat from another dream he can't remember. His collarbone aches where it snapped (a greenstick fracture, they called it, he thought of sap and springtime) and his wrist itches. He knows it's the bones knitting back together, but he wants to wrap his other hand around it and squeeze until he feels the bones break again. 

The dreams leave him feeling hunted, unsettled, like something's watching him. It feels like he's come into a room and forgotten the reason why. He gets up and hits the bag for awhile, keeping his damaged wrist to his chest and his exhalations quiet, and then he climbs out the window and gets in the Camaro.

He pretends to himself that he's driving aimlessly until he passes Harrington's street, and he hates the little flip his stomach does as he makes the u-turn. He cruises down the street with the windows down, headlights off, and watches the shadows of clouds move across the road in the moonlight. He can't help but slow down as he passes Harrington's house (his mansion, his _palace_ , for fuck's sake) and he sees there's a light on upstairs. Harrington's bedroom, maybe. Billy thinks about that for three seconds and then forces it away. 

There's a soft warbling sound, like a weird birdcall, and he looks across the street to see Harrington leaning against a mailbox, watching him. 

"That you, Hargrove, or am I dreaming?"

Billy's grip on the wheel tightens until his knuckles are white. 

Harrington pushes off the mailbox and walks a little unsteadily toward the car. When he gets there he puts one hand on the windowsill and leans down.

"Did you come to see me? Did you _miss_ me?"

"Don't be an asshole," Billy says. He knows he's blushing. Goddamn Harrington. "Are you drunk?"

Harrington makes a pinching motion with two fingers. "A little."

"Is anyone home?" Billy doesn't know why he's fucking _parenting_ right now, but he can't seem to help himself. "Are you okay?" 

Harrington's face does something wobbly and then he smirks. 

"You can come in if you want," he says, eyelashes lowered. _Christ_.

"You're drunk," Billy says. 

Harrington smiles and leans further into the car. He hooks a finger through Billy's necklace with surprising deftness and pulls ever so slightly. "Yep."

Billy gently detangles him and puts his hand back on the windowsill.

"Harrington," he says. "Pretty boy. Something tells me sober you is gonna feel different about inviting me in. But I appreciate it."

Harrington scoffs. "Pretty boy," he says. "You're such a dick."

He straightens up from the window and starts to walk backward away from the car. 

"Last chance," he says, and some idiot part of Billy seizes control and he puts the car in park. 

"We're putting you to bed, though," he says as he gets out. His skin is humming. Harrington rolls his eyes and holds out his hand and Billy has a ferocious one-second argument with himself and then he takes it. Harrington tows him along, through the gigantic yard, up to a sliding door he's left ajar. 

"Let me give you the tour," he says.

"Let's save the tour," Billy says. "Let's just go to your room for now."

As soon as he says it he feels his face heat. 

"I mean—" 

He stops himself before he says anything worse and follows Harrington upstairs. He flops onto the bed facedown, his feet hanging off the end. Billy stands in the doorway for a moment, realizes he's fully asleep, and then he kneels beside the bed and takes his shoes off.

"Harrington," he says. "You gotta drink some water."

He finds a cup in the bathroom, runs the tap until it's cold. He shoves gently at Harrington's shoulder until he rolls over and sits up just enough to drain the cup. 

"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, already falling back asleep. 

Billy takes the cup gently out of his hand, trying not to freak out, the word echoing in his head. He wants to reach into his chest and pull out his stupid, stupid heart, get it as far away from himself as he can. He puts the cup on the bedside table and slips out of the room. He doesn't look back, doesn't want to see enough of Harrington or his room to be able to think about it later. His head aches miserably. He wants to be someone else.

He wanders through the house in the moonlight, looking at baby pictures, sports trophies. He wonders what it was like to grow up in this big empty space. He wonders if Harrington is lonely. He wonders what it would be like to wake up here, to belong here. To belong anywhere. He lets himself out the sliding door and closes it, drives home and gets into the shower. He stands there with his eyes shut tight and his forehead pressed to the tile, splinted wrist held out beyond the curtain, and jerks himself off clumsily with his left hand. _Baby_. He gets into bed still wrapped in his towel, still angry. He pulls the covers all the way over his head and waits for the darkness to claim him. 


	3. cut the headlights (summer's a knife)

His mouth tastes like a melon that’s been left out in the sun for days. Why does his mother only keep rich-white-lady alcohol in the house?

 _Rhetorical question_ , he thinks. The phone is ringing. He reaches out, grabs it, rests it on the side of his head.

"Yeah," he says.

Robin snorts. "You sound like shit." 

"I feel like shit," he says. He sits up gingerly, waiting for the headache to hit.

"Got your message. I’m sorry I couldn’t hang out," she says.

"When is this stupid band camp over again?" he asks. He presses the heel of his hand to his eye and tries not to sound as pitiful as he feels. 

"Next week," she says. "Hang in there."

 _Click_. 

It had been a bad night.

He started to feel it as the sun went down, the claustrophobic terror that lives in the back of his mind. He called Robin. He thought about calling Tommy and decided against it. He needs to be around someone who _knows_. He can't do small talk anymore, can't be King Steve. Can't pretend like nothing matters. Even Dustin wasn't home to talk to him. He sat alone, watched TV until he thought he’d go insane, and then he turned off the lights and sat in the dark with a bottle of liquor. When he's alone and it's quiet the tunnels come back, the smell of them, the stifling mind-numbing feeling of them. He always thinks they're gone, that he's better, and then he wakes in the middle of the night and he's back down there, trying not to breathe. He drank until he stopped feeling scared and then kept drinking, and now his head is going to split gently in half like a rotting pumpkin.

His gaze lands on the water glass on his bedside table, and suddenly he has a flash of memory he prays is not real.

He doesn’t even have Billy’s phone number, he realizes; he has to fucking drive to his house if he wants to talk to him. He showers, head pounding, and then he makes toast. He crams a piece into his mouth as he leaves the house, peace offering in tow. Billy’s window is open when he pulls up, and Steve can see him hitting the bag one-handed. He looks up when Steve cuts the engine and comes to the window, hair damp with sweat. 

"You’re alive," he says.

"So you _were_ there," Steve says, simultaneously horrified and pleased.

"Don’t worry," Billy says. He looks weirdly sad. "You behaved."

Steve grimaces. "Why does that make me feel like I probably didn’t?"

"Aw, Harrington, I wouldn’t lie to you. You were just talkin’ shit, just like always, King Steve, you know. Are you gonna come in?" 

Steve hands him the six-pack he found in the garage and walks toward the front door. Billy meets him there, still holding the beer, and they walk silently down the hall to his room. There’s a big cushion on the floor that might once have been a dog bed, and Steve sinks down into it gratefully.

"So," Billy says, sitting on the bed. "You wanna talk about it?"

"What did I say last night?" Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

"Nothing really," Billy says. "No deep dark secrets."

 _You have no idea_.

"I don’t know," he says aloud. "Sometimes I just…"

He opens his hand like sand is sifting through his fingers.

"It’s like my skin is too small or something," he says. "Everything feels wrong."

 _Upside down_ , he thinks. 

Billy lights a joint and holds it out where Steve can see it. He takes a drag and hands it back.

"Sorry," he says.

"No, it’s nice to know you’re human," Billy says. "Fucked up like everyone else. It’s nice." 

"If you say so," Steve says. He lets his eyes fall shut. After a few minutes he has a thought, reaches out with one foot to tap against Billy’s. 

"You forgot stuff," he says. "From before. Right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I don’t know. Just wondering. I don’t remember what I did last _night_ and I’m all worried about it, I guess.. I thought you might be…"

 _Scared_ is what he wants to say, or maybe _curious_ , but he doesn’t know why he’s pushing Billy in this direction. If the Mind Flayer is in there somewhere, the last thing he wants to do is wake it up. _But at least then I'd know_ , he thinks. _Before anything happened._

Billy smiles, and it is genuine and full of pain at the same time.

"Can't imagine there's a whole lot worth remembering in the last six months," he says. "There hasn't been for most of my life. No big loss."

Steve is struck silent by how fucking sad that is, and all he can do is stare at Billy.

"I do wonder what I did to Neil, though, you know?" He almost smiles.

"What do you mean?" Steve manages. 

"He completely avoids me," Billy says. "We haven't spoken once since I got home. It's like he's scared of me. I guess I finally stood up to him."

He laughs grimly. _"That_ I wish I remembered."

Steve looks at the burst of scar tissue across Billy’s chest where the Mind Flayer speared into him and doesn’t say anything. After a minute Billy opens another beer and hands it to Steve. He looks directly into his eyes and says, "Is there anything I _should_ remember?"

Steve's face goes hot and he takes a long drink, hiding behind the can. "Like what?"

"Oh, you know. Fucking, fighting. Did I make any new friends?"

"Definitely not," Steve says.

Billy laughs and the sound is a relief. "Fuck you," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve mutters, his eyes closing again. He puts the beer on the floor and props his head on the edge of the big cushion. He listens as Billy putters around his room, tuning his guitar, lifting weights. At one point he puts on a record, a surprisingly soft one, and then Steve falls asleep. He dreams they're holding each other. When he wakes up Billy’s still sitting on the bed, now holding a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and the sun is setting. Billy holds his gaze for maybe a second too long and Steve wonders if he said something in his sleep.

"Come back to my house," he says impulsively. "We can watch a movie."

"I gotta shower," Billy says, and a faint flush appears above his collarbone.

"Okay," Steve says. "I’m gonna eat the rest of your cereal."

They drive separately. Steve squints into the sun and tries desperately to remember whether he embarrassed himself last night. Billy seems normal, for Billy, and he sort of assumes Billy _wouldn't_ seem normal if Steve had said something weird about, like, his mouth. Or whatever. They park, he unlocks the door, and Billy follows him upstairs.

"Of course you have a rec room," Billy says. "Should have taken the tour after all."

"What?"

"Nothing," Billy says. "Are you gonna make me watch _Alien_?"

"I mean, I... want to," Steve says sheepishly. "But we don't—I have others—"

Billy's rifling through the cabinet where all the tapes are. He grabs one and walks over to Steve and then drops to his knees.

"Harrington," he says, looking up at him. "If I promise you that we can watch _Alien_ sometime, someday, can we please, please watch—"

Steve takes the tape out of his hand and turns it over.

" _The Muppets Take Manhattan,"_ he says.

"I love the fuckin' Muppets, man," Billy says, standing. He's very close to Steve. 

"That is... surprising," Steve says. 

"It's not always doom and gloom with me, Harrington," Billy says, grabbing the tape and ducking over to the VCR. "Sometimes it's Muppets."

Steve turns off the lights and collapses into a beanbag, watching Billy negotiate his way down onto the other one. 

"You just sit down," he says. 

"You try _just sitting_ when your pants are this tight."

Steve watches that one sail past him, not touching it, not thinking about it, and hits Play. He watches Billy out of the corner of his eye, marveling at the little smile on his face. It's different from his usual smile; softer, less guarded. He looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye and catches him staring. He winks and looks back at the screen, and Steve feels himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears. 

They sit there in the dark after the credits roll, and after a few minutes Billy begins laboriously removing himself from the beanbag.

"Get up," he says. "We're goin' out."

“It’s like, one a.m.,” Steve says, bemused. He’s warm in the stupid beanbag chair, loose from the two or three beers he’s had, and he just wants to coast. He wants to be near Billy more, though, so he gets up. 

The air is just cool enough; it takes the earth this long to relax its grip on all the heat it’s taken in. Steve tips his head back to look for the satellite Dustin keeps telling him is up there, and when he looks down he sees that Billy has opened the door of the Camaro for him. He’s already in the driver seat, chewing a toothpick impatiently, and he makes a motion like _what, get the fuck in_. Steve gets in, wondering if he should mention the door thing. Instead of that he pokes gently at the Animal bobblehead in the cup holder. _He really does love the fuckin' Muppets_. 

“No dashboard for our friend here?” he asks. 

“Huh,” Billy says, flicking its head thoughtfully. “I guess now that Neil’s not a threat he can take his rightful place.”

Steve watches him stick the little Muppet carefully to the dashboard. He doesn’t know how to appropriately respond to this casual mention of a lifelong abuser, so he says the next thing on his mind, which is, “Your car smells like you.”

Billy gives him that one-sided smirk and says, “Oh yeah?” 

Steve blushes again and changes the subject. 

“Where are we going?” he asks. 

“Edge of town,” Billy says, gunning the engine.

“Why?”

“You’ll see,” he says. They ride in silence. Steve is realizing that being around Billy makes him feel calm. He knows Billy might still be dangerous, and he knows he needs to be careful, but when they're together the tunnels seem to get farther away from him. Images of the bashed-open bodies of demodogs don't surface as much. He's trying to stay vigilant, stay alert, he's the one who protects everyone and he's _good_ at it, maybe the first time in his life he's been good at something that _matters_ , but now there's this small, stupid part of him that wants to think that maybe someone—maybe _Billy—_ could protect _him_ for once. 

Billy swings the car around a curve and suddenly all the lights in the world are gone. Steve leans forward, then sideways, trying to see up above them. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking for a satellite,” Steve murmurs. "Where are we?"

"You know the big long road through the corn?"

"Um—"

"Doesn't matter," Billy says.

The headlights slice forward in front of them like a knife as Billy takes the car around another curve, the engine growling as he accelerates even further. The road stretches out in a straight line before them, cornfields sprawling away in every direction, and he says, “Ready?” 

Steve turns his head to look at him and sees Billy is absolutely _beaming_ , grinning like a fucking devil as he stares out over the hood, and he has one second to consider the idea that he wants to be something that Billy smiles like that about before Billy cuts the headlights.

The darkness falls like a curtain and the stars are nowhere near bright enough and the car is bulleting down the road in the _pitch-black fucking dark._ Steve yelps in panic and clamps down on the first thing his hand can find, which is Billy’s knee. Billy makes some kind of laugh-growl sound in his throat and jams the pedal to the floor. 

“No, no, nononono,” Steve is saying, and Billy laughs and says, “You’re fucking tickling me, Harrington, you’re driving the fuckin' car now,” and then he takes one hand off the wheel and pries Steve’s claws out of his leg and then instead of letting go he holds on, and Steve doesn’t pull away. Billy takes his foot off the gas but he doesn’t turn the lights back on. The car coasts to a stop and Billy pulls it off the road, just barely shy of the corn. He lets go of Steve’s hand and turns off the engine. The whole thing has lasted maybe seven seconds. Steve is breathing hard, almost dizzy with fear, and he presses his forehead against the window and rolls his skin across the cold glass. He hears a flick and crackle behind him as Billy lights a joint, and he turns to see him watching him in the soft orange glow. 

“Sorry,” Billy says, and past Steve would feel like that was sarcastic and say something appropriately bitchy back, but he looks like he means it. "I promise I wouldn't have crashed. I do it a lot out here, it's... I forget it's not, like, a normal fun thing."

"It wasn't not fun," Steve says. His heart is pounding, his body fizzing with adrenaline, and it feels pretty good, actually. "Terrifying, but not... not fun. I didn't hate it. I'd do it again, maybe. I don't know."

He's talking too much. Adrenaline. He shuts his mouth and waits. Billy just watches him as he takes another drag. The ember flares and its light reflects in his eyes, glints off his jewelry. He holds the joint out and Steve moves to take it, but Billy brings his hand in close and holds onto it and Steve has no choice but to lean forward, wrap his fingers around Billy’s wrist and take a drag, his lips bumping against Billy’s fingers as he does. Something sparks at the base of his spine and he exhales a little too forcefully as a shiver works through him. He looks up and Billy's staring at him. It’s still so fucking dark; he doesn’t trust his eyes, doesn’t believe what he’s seeing, because what it looks like to him is Billy Hargrove’s eyes dark with hunger, locked on his mouth. His hand is still closed around Billy’s wrist and he can feel his pulse jumping. Everything is moving slowly now, like a fever dream. He lets go of Billy slowly, carefully, and just looks at him. 

Billy puts the joint back in his own mouth and slides out from under the wheel, across the bench seat toward Steve, and in one move he turns and swings one leg over Steve's and then Billy Hargrove is sitting in his fucking lap. Well—he's sort of perched above Steve, one knee on either side of him, trying to keep himself from, what, touching him too much? Crushing him? Steve's head swims with confusion and smoke and the smell of Billy's skin so close to him, and then Billy takes the joint from his mouth and leans in close. He puts a hand on Steve's face and squeezes gently until he opens his lips, and then he moves in close enough that they could kiss and breathes a stream of smoke directly into Steve's mouth. Steve’s dick twitches in his pants and he almost chokes, suppressing a cough as best he can without dislodging Billy in any way. He’s not used to being at this angle to him, looking up at him; he has an insane but nearly irresistible urge to lick him from his collarbone all the way to the sharp curve of his jaw. He shudders and brings his hands up, not sure what he’s going to do until they settle around Billy’s waist. He’s slim and warm and his eyes are locked on Steve’s, and Steve is afraid that if he speaks the entire moment will shimmer and dissolve like soap bubbles and so he doesn’t say anything, just pulls Billy down into his lap until he can feel _—Christ—_ he can feel Billy rock-hard against him. He makes a tiny sound in his throat and tightens his grip, and Billy moves his hand from Steve's chin to the back of his neck and gently tugs at his hair, tipping his head back. He puts the joint to Steve's lips and Steve inhales deeply, pulling the smoke all the way into his lungs, and then Billy opens his mouth and lets Steve breathe into him. He reaches down and puts the joint out in one of the empty beer cans, and then he puts his forehead to Steve's and grinds down into him. Steve makes a little sound that might be a gasp and pulls him closer, arching up into him. The pendant swings in front of him and he mouths at it, trapping it against hot bare skin, and the scrape of his teeth over Billy's chest earns him a sharp hiss as Billy moves against him even harder. They're breathing almost into each other's mouths, almost touching, and then Billy slides his lips along Steve's jaw and buries his face in his neck. He feels it more than hears it when Billy mutters, "Fuck, Harrington," and slips a hand under his ass to pull him closer. His other arm comes up around Steve, threading into his hair and tugging sharply this time, and Steve gasps and returns the favor, pulling Billy's head back so he can bite at the soft skin of his throat. Billy makes a sound deep in his throat that ends in a whine and they move against each other desperately. Steve closes his eyes and has a flash of what it would feel like to do this naked, nothing between them as they slide against each other, and the image sends him over the edge without warning. He clings to Billy, sinks his teeth into his shoulder and shudders against him, and Billy growls _Harrington_ into his ear, pulling him still closer, and then he gasps and says it again, barely a whisper, and it breaks in the middle as he comes, and Steve decides it's good that he came first because that sound alone would have undone him. 

They sit there for a few minutes panting, still holding each other. Billy's forehead is cradled in the dip of Steve's shoulder; his hand rests loosely at the base of Steve's throat. Steve's hands are around his waist once more, under his shirt, thumbs making small circles as their breathing slows. 

"Fuck," Billy murmurs, not moving his head. "Been wanting to get you underneath me for awhile now."

"You got me," Steve says drowsily. His eyes close as Billy says, "I hope so," and then he drifts away for a moment. When he comes back to himself Billy is stroking his hair back from his forehead, looking down at him with an expression he can't identify. 

"Well," he says. Then he lifts himself off Steve and wriggles back into place in the driver's seat. He cranks the ignition and slams the car into gear, and then he turns the radio on. Loud. They drive without speaking, heavy metal ripping through the space between them. Steve wonders if he should reach over, maybe—what? Hold Billy's hand? Wear his fucking jacket like some kind of lovesick girl? _Idiot_ , he thinks. They got a little high, a little heated. It doesn't mean anything. It shouldn't. The Camaro stops so abruptly in front of his house that he almost slides into the dashboard. He looks at Billy, who's looking straight ahead, chewing that fucking toothpick. 

"Um," Steve says, barely audible above the music. He reaches toward the volume knob and Billy pushes his hand away. 

"Okay," Steve says. He nods. He takes a breath to fill the hollow space inside him. "I—okay."

He pushes the door open and stands. 

He walks across the yard to his empty house, and when he reaches the front door he turns back. Billy's watching him, his gaze dark and unreadable, and he lifts a hand off the steering wheel. It's barely there, but it's a wave. An acknowledgement. Then the engine roars and he's gone.

Steve shuts the door behind him and leans back against it, head spinning.

 _What... the... fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coping mechanisms! oblivious idiots! my beautiful babies!


	4. angels roll their eyes

_The gate must be opened._

He wakes up freezing, curled into a ball and shivering. His head aches, his chest aches. He thinks maybe he was dreaming about his mother. 

It’s his last day at the pool, a half-shift before he goes in to the video store. He sits in the sun, barely watching the water, willing himself to get warm. Nancy Wheeler’s mom does a little wave at him. He blinks and finds himself in a vivid, horrifying vision of her head splitting open against a metal shelf. He blinks again and he’s drowning her in a bathtub. 

_"Jesus,_ " he yells, jerking upright in his chair. Everyone at the pool looks at him. He climbs down from the lifeguard stand and pulls the whistle over his head, stumbling a little as he opens the door to the locker room. He goes into the sauna, following some weird half-forgotten instinct, and folds himself down onto a corner of the bench. He pulls his knees to his chest and puts his forehead down and breathes slowly, evenly, trying to fill his lungs with steam. Something about the place makes him nervous. It looks like it’s been remortared, like a section of the wall has been smashed out and rebuilt. He reaches over and puts his hand flat on the wall. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but it doesn’t feel like anything. He runs his hands through his hair and knocks his head back against the stone. He does it again, harder, and then he sighs and gets up. 

Harrington’s car isn’t outside the Family Video, which is a relief. They haven’t seen each other since the other night, and Billy has no idea what he’s going to say to him. He was all fucked up, clearly going through something, and Billy just _jumped_ him, just climbed all _over_ him like a fucking animal. He probably feels taken advantage of. He probably never wants to speak to him again. He’s probably disgusted knowing what Billy’s like, what he _likes_. He probably—

“Are you having a stroke?”

Robin knocks on the window. “Are you? I have a thing, I can break the window—"

“I'm not having a stroke,” he says loudly. He pops the door handle and nudges her with the door until she backs up. 

“Are you okay, then? Because you look like death warmed over.”

He does his best approximation of a smile. 

“Just feeling weird, I guess.”

She narrows her eyes at him. 

“Well, come inside,” she says. “I think I have a Coke somewhere you can have.”

He follows her into the store, wondering if Steve has told her anything. She rummages around in her bag and puts a can on the counter, then leans on her arms behind it and stares at him.

"It's not cold," she says. "Sorry."

"That's fine," he says absently, picking it up. He opens it and takes a drink. It's been awhile since he's tasted anything that sweet, and he can't stop until he coughs and sets it down with his eyes watering. Robin keeps watching him, eyebrows lifted slightly.

"You have a very judgmental face, you know that?" he says, massaging his throat. 

"Yeah, it's been mentioned," she says. "So what's up with you?"

"Why do you care?" 

His tone is sharper than he means for it to be, but she doesn't blink.

"I hired you," she says. "And right now you couldn't sell _Ghostbusters_ to a thirteen-year-old boy."

He looks down at himself and thinks she might be right. He hasn't changed out of the lifeguard tank top and it shows too much of his scar. He's still wearing flip-flops. He's also coated in a thin film of sweat, which is insane, because he's still fucking freezing. 

"Is it cold in here?" he asks. 

"No," she says. "Are you sick?"

"I haven't been sleeping well," he says. "Nightmares. Really bad ones."

She hoists herself up onto the counter and pats the space next to her. He sits. 

"About the accident?"

"No," he says. "Honestly, I barely even think about that. This is always the same, it's like... a storm. Like I'm on the beach and something bad is coming. Sky goes dark, wind whips up, suddenly I'm completely alone on this stretch of sand searching for—"

He falls silent. 

"Someone," he says after a moment. "Searching for someone. But there's no one there."

"That sounds really awful," she says quietly. 

He's embarrassed all of a sudden, unsure why he's just unzipped himself in front of this girl he barely knows. Harrington's _best friend_. For all he knows, she's gonna wait until he leaves and ring him right up. _Steve, you'll never believe what Billy just told me. Looked like he was gonna cry._ And then he realizes he is, in fact, very possibly about to fucking cry. He looks at the ceiling, willing himself to get a grip. 

"I used to have this dream a lot," she says, "where I was in the girls' locker room in a towel. And my clothes were locked in a locker, and the only way I could get it open was to tell it a secret. And I only have one secret, and it's..."

She sighs.

"I always woke up crying."

"What was the secret?" he asks, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. 

"Who were you looking for on the beach?" she counters, looking at him. He gets why Harrington likes her, he really does. She's direct, and a little scary, but there's something under the surface that he recognizes. Softness, maybe, or fear, or both. He decides to call her bluff.

"My mom," he says, meeting her eyes. "I'm always looking for my mom, and this horrible thing is coming, and I can feel it getting closer and closer and I can't find her, because she left me alone, and—"

Tears well up again and he stops talking. 

"Shit," she says. "I didn't think you'd tell."

He's surprised into a laugh. "Gotcha," he says. "Spill."

She rolls her eyes. "Swear it stays a secret."

"Swear."

"Swear on your life."

"Swear on my life."

"I like girls," she says. She sounds almost defiant. Like she's daring him to judge her. He feels his heart start to race. 

"Oh," he says.

 _"Like_ like," she says.

"I get it."

"Do you? It took Steve a minute."

It shouldn't hurt to hear that, but it does. Billy gets it right away because Billy's the same as her. Steve didn't, so... he isn't. 

"I do," he says. "I really do."

She looks at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. 

"I believe you," she says at last. 

"Uh, thanks." 

"Steve's kind of an idiot," she says, looking down at the empty can of soda.

"You know, I've noticed that," he says.

She starts worrying the tab, folding it back and forth as she talks. 

"He's the best person I know, though," she says. "Just... not always aware."

Billy nods, not trusting himself to say something normal. 

"Have you talked to him at all about, you know, all of this? The dreams?" She snaps the tab off and starts turning it in her fingers.

"No," Billy says. "Why, do you think I should?"

She shrugs. "Maybe he could help."

He resists the urge to snort. _Yeah, right_. He'll tell Harrington all about his fears, his horrifying dreams, his crippling abandonment issues, then he'll cry on his shoulder and they'll drive off into the sunset together. Jesus Christ. 

"Yeah, maybe," he says instead. 

"I guess I just mean don't assume he wouldn't get it," she says. "Don't assume he wouldn't care."

He's feeling dangerously emotional, and his chest aches like crazy. He slips off the counter and picks up the empty can. 

"So, do you... are there... is there a girl?" he asks, holding out the can. She drops the tab into it. 

"There was," she says. "I mean, she wasn't—there wasn't—there was a girl that I liked. Not that liked me."

"Shit," he says. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs again, does a little almost-smile. "One year left here," she says. "Then I can get out there and find someone."

"You're brave," he says, and he means it. Her smile widens. 

"It helps to have a friend who knows," she says. "That's all I'm saying."

"Do you mind if I leave early?" he asks abruptly. He needs to be outside in the sun. He needs to get home and wrap himself in the biggest quilt he can find and sit in the dark until his mind quiets.

"Nah, go," she says, making a shooing motion. "It's not exactly busy in here."

"Thank you." He looks her in the eyes. "Really."

"Just do me a favor and go to the doctor, okay? Just in case. Your eyes are like, sinking into your head like you're a fuckin' skeleton. It's creepy."

"I'll think about it," he says. 

He turns the radio up until it hurts and swings out of the parking lot, waiting until he's past the sheriff's station to slam the pedal to the floor. As he squints into the sun he catches a glint of light in the rearview mirror and looks back. The windshield of a car flashes as it turns into the parking lot. He can't tell if it's the Beemer, but something twinges inside him at the thought that it might be. He knows Robin means well, and he thinks they could really be friends, but there's no way he can tell Harrington about anything that's been going on with him. If there is something between them—which there isn't—but if there's even the chance, he can't let Harrington know how damaged he is. He can't expect him to carry that.

As he speeds down the road he starts to feel the thing from the beach, the strange claustrophobic darkness rolling toward him like a storm across the sea. It's behind him, he _knows_ it's behind him, closing in, ready to swallow him whole. He turns into the driveway so fast that he skids out, knocking over their trash cans, and he bolts out of the driver's seat without even bothering to close the door. He locks himself in his bedroom with the space heater on as high as it will go, then crawls under his bed with a blanket. It's still searching for him; he can feel it above him, hungry and waiting. 

_I'm losing my fucking mind_ , he thinks, and then he finally lets himself cry.


	5. devils roll the dice

“He’s scared,” Robin says, sinking down to her neck and then bobbing back up. They’re waist-deep in the quarry, taking advantage of the fact that a midday power surge fried half the store lights and got them the rest of the day off. 

“How do you figure?” he asks. 

“I’ve got eyes and ears, dingus,” she says.

“What did he say exactly?”

“He said that he keeps dreaming about something following him,” she says, raising her eyebrows dramatically. 

“So he’s flayed,” Steve says flatly.

Robin waggles her hand. “I only saw him at the end, but he’s not acting like he was before,” she says. “He’s acting like… like he got away from something, only he doesn’t know why he feels that way because he doesn’t remember anything.” 

“I just can’t picture him scared,” Steve says, bouncing lightly off the rocks beneath him. “You know? Like, he’s always so cocky. So like…”

He flips his hair, tries to do the tongue wiggle that Billy always does. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says in a low, surfer-y voice. “I’m Billy Hargrove, have you seen my Camaro?” 

Robin rolls her eyes so far back in her head he’s afraid he’s about to see her brain.

“You’re such an idiot,” she says.

“What? That’s literally a perfect impression—“

“He’s trying to impress you, dingus.” Robin dunks her entire head underwater and then resurfaces. 

“Why would he need to impress me?” Steve asks. 

She gives him a look.

“What?”

“Steve, I know you’re not that stupid,” she says. Before he can say anything he hears the roar of an engine, and they both turn to see the Camaro pulling up next to Steve’s car. 

“Great,” he mutters. 

“Don’t think this gets you off the hook,” Robin says out of the side of her mouth. “You haven’t even told me about the other night.”

He wishes he was wearing a shirt. He’s acutely aware that he’s blushing from the sternum up. He turns away from the shore, toward Robin, pretending he doesn’t hear the car as Billy parks it carefully and then slams the door. He waits until Billy yells, “Harrington? That you?” _Like he doesn't fucking know._

“Yeah, it’s me,” he calls, trying to sound slightly bored as he turns around. He wishes immediately that he hadn’t because Billy is pulling his shirt over his head, kicking off his stupid boots, taking off his _pants_ , and then he drops into the quarry like a stone. Steve does his best to track the underwater blur of him but he’s still surprised at how close he is when he surfaces. He shakes his hair out of his face and droplets of water spark against the sunlight. _Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington._

“Hi, Robin,” Billy says. Steve can tell from her face that she’s resisting the urge to say something specific. She finally says, “Hey, Billy. How ya feeling?”

Something flashes across his face before he smiles, wide and easy, and says, “Pretty good.”

He shoots a quick glance at Steve. Steve pretends not to notice and continues standing there like an idiot, swishing his arms back and forth. 

Robin rolls her eyes and drops underwater, blowing water out of her nose as she surfaces. 

“Graceful,” Steve says, thankful for the distraction. Robin scratches her nose with her middle finger and then says, “Listen, Billy, can you take care of the Hair? I have some library books I have to return that I totally forgot about.”

Steve tries to kick her, but since they're underwater, he just ends up gently brushing his toes against her shin. 

“Yeah,” says Billy, smiling lazily. “The Hair and everything underneath it is safe with me.”

She gives Steve a huge, evil grin and splashes away. They watch her paddle to shore, climb out onto the rocks and shake her entire body violently, like a dog. She pulls her shorts on and cups her hands around her mouth. 

“I’m taking the Beemer!” she yells. “You have to take him home!”

Steve wonders if he has the willpower to drown himself. He watches Billy give Robin a thumbs-up as she peels out, and he tries not to think about what her driving will do to the transmission. 

He starts tiptoeing along the bottom, moving toward deeper water. He’s almost up to his nipples when Billy says, “You avoiding me, Harrington?”

“What?” Steve says, sliding off a rock and half-dunking himself. “What—um—uh—"

Billy smirks, watches him find his footing.

“Let me rephrase,” he says, drifting closer. His necklace glints in the sun. “Are you avoiding me because you didn’t like it, or because you did?”

A bolt of heat spikes through Steve and he takes a sharp little inhale that Billy clocks immediately. He moves closer. Drops of water fall from the ends of his hair. One stupid lock of it is curling forward perfectly and Steve reaches out to push it back but before he can, Billy grabs his hand. 

“Because," he says, pulling their hands toward him, "if you _did_ like it.” His thumb traces circles into Steve’s palm. “You know. It could... happen again.”

His grip tightens just a little, and he doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes as he says, “Maybe other stuff could happen.”

He moves slowly, giving Steve every opportunity to stop him, keeping his gaze lowered. He brings Steve’s hand to his mouth, presses the backs of his fingers to his lips. 

“For instance,” he says, his breath warm on Steve’s skin as he measures out the words evenly, “I had thought that maybe I could suck your dick.”

Steve goes utterly still. For a moment he can’t even form a thought. Billy mouths gently at him, teeth scraping across fingertips, and Steve’s breathing starts doing a very audible and embarrassing hitching thing that he can’t seem to stop, and then Billy closes his lips around his thumb. Steve actually whimpers, actually makes a small high-pitched sound like a fucking girl. He instinctively hooks his fingers under Billy’s chin, pressing the pad of his thumb into his tongue. Billy makes a sound in his throat that Steve wants to hear again and ducks his head just slightly, just enough that he can roll his tongue all the way around Steve’s thumb, and Steve just stands there on the verge of losing his fucking mind. 

Billy pulls away and meets his gaze, finally, _finally,_ and hunger pools in Steve’s belly and crackles up his spine, and he can’t speak. Billy grins, impish and smug. 

“You have to get out of the water,” he says, and starts wading for shore without waiting to see if Steve is following. 

He still doesn't say anything as Billy pops the trunk, gets out a blanket, spreads it on the ground. He does his best not to think about how many times he’s probably done this before. He just stands there in the sun watching him. 

Billy motions toward the blanket, the same impatient move he made when Steve was standing outside the Camaro. Steve sits down slowly, still watching him. The scar on his chest is like a scream against the smooth expanse of skin and Steve wants to touch it, maybe, put his hands on it and draw out whatever poison is left.

Billy paces a quick circle around the car, making sure they’re alone. Steve notices he’s left the driver's door open. Then he lowers himself down onto the blanket next to Steve. 

He’s been trying to calm himself down, doing deep breathing, thinking of anything else, but as soon as Billy’s weight settles next to him he starts to panic. He leans back, then forward, then back again, unsure what to do in this insane situation. He can't remember how he normally holds his arms, for fuck's sake. Finally he just forces himself to be still, folds his hands in his lap, and then looks at Billy. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Steve says, half-gesturing at the two of them. “With—me. Why me.”

Billy turns fully toward him. 

“What do you want the answer to be?” he asks. He sounds... sincere. 

“I—I don’t know,” Steve says, which is almost the truth. “I guess I just don’t get it.”

Billy puts a hand on his chest, pushes him backwards until he’s lying down, and then looks at him. 

“Hmm,” he says. Then he puts his hand on Steve's dick through his shorts, just rests it there. Steve’s whole body tenses; his breathing stutters as his heart skips a beat. Billy smirks a little and starts to rub his thumb back and forth while he talks.

“The housewives, the lifeguards, the homecoming queens,” he says. “You thinking about them?”

Steve isn’t thinking about anything besides the pressure of Billy’s fingers on him, but he does his best. 

“Kind of,” he says, inwardly a little proud at how even his voice sounds. “I just mean—”

Billy squeezes hard, just for a second, just enough for the barest hint of pain before he strokes him again. Steve’s back arches as he gasps.

_“Christ,_ ” he says. “Billy. You can have anyone you want. I don’t—"

Billy slips his fingers under the waistband of Steve’s swim trunks and pulls them down. 

“The way that—" 

Steve takes as deep a breath as he can as he watches Billy shuffle his way down the blanket. 

“The way you—I’ve never, like, reacted like this—"

Billy pushes his knees apart almost roughly and settles himself between them. Steve curls his fingers into the blanket. 

“You could have anyone you want,” he says again, the words tumbling over themselves. Billy sits back on his heels and looks at him. 

“That's why it really pisses me off,” he says, “that the only one I want is a fuckin’ clueless pretty boy.”

There’s a faint tilt to one side of his mouth, like he might be joking. He puts his hands on Steve’s thighs, runs his fingers lightly over the creases of his legs, and sighs. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” he says. “I don’t mind being around you, and I like making you nervous, and I kind of wanna know what you look like when someone’s taking you apart. Okay?”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve murmurs, closing his eyes. He feels like he’s lost control of his body, like he’s floating, like he’s falling. _Taking you apart_ , god. _God._ Before he can say anything, before he can even form a coherent thought, Billy’s hand is on him and then Billy’s lips are on him and he opens his eyes to see Billy looking right at him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Holy fuck.” 

He sits half up so he can see better. Billy puts his hands on Steve’s hips, pinning him down, and he keeps his eyes on Steve’s. He's already way too close; he’s woken up hard and aching from dreams about Billy for the last two days. He can’t break the eye contact—he doesn’t want to, but even if he did, there’s no way—and he stares into Billy’s eyes until his lashes finally flutter down and he starts sucking Steve’s dick in earnest. Steve groans and tips his head back, lying down again. He reaches out and cups the back of Billy’s head. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pull, just rakes his fingers lightly through his hair. Billy makes a rumbling sound in his chest and swallows around him, and Steve shudders under his hands. Billy releases his hips and uses one hand to cup him, and Steve lifts his head just enough to see him start touching himself with the other hand. _He likes this_ , he thinks distractedly. _He really likes this. He likes me. He likes me?_ He stops thinking as Billy takes him all the way down, making a humming noise that Steve feels through his entire body. His throat and tongue move around Steve and the combined sensation, the way he looks with his mouth on Steve and a hand down his own pants, it’s too fucking much. Steve's hips lift involuntarily and he gasps. 

“Billy,” he whispers, clutching at his shoulder. "Close.” Billy doesn't sit up like he's expecting, just grabs his hips once more to hold him still, and Steve writhes and whimpers and pulls Billy’s hair and then he comes harder than he ever has in his life. Billy makes no move to get away, leans into him, swallows and stays there. He keeps his hands on Steve but loosens his grip, rubbing away the red marks he’s left. Steve is trembling like a leaf, every nerve ending firing at once, and he feels like Billy’s hands are the only thing keeping him from shaking himself to pieces.

After a minute Billy slowly, slowly sits up. His lips are swollen and slick, almost bruised-looking, and Steve has a very quick thought that looks something like _kiss_ and shoves it away. Billy looks at him and there’s something in his eyes Steve can’t read, something almost sad. Steve sits all the way up, his legs still in a V around Billy, and touches his face for a second before pulling back like he’s touched fire. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Billy’s mouth pulls to one side.

“Was that okay?” Billy asks. “Did—was I—okay?”

“Fuck, yes. God. Better than okay,” Steve says, kind of amazed he'd even ask. He shuffles around, putting his shorts back on, and then he stretches back out. He tugs gently at Billy’s arm until they're lying facing each other. His eyes are wide and clear and so blue, his mouth soft. Steve puts a hand on Billy’s face and draws his thumb softly across his lower lip. Billy closes his eyes and sighs, looking peaceful, which does something strange to Steve’s insides. He opens one eye to look at Steve again.

“Well, good,” he says. “I liked it.” 

Steve’s dick throbs minutely at that thought. He lets his hand fall away and rolls so he’s flat on his back, staring up at the darkening sky.

“Have you ever done that before?” he asks. 

Billy knocks an elbow into his side. 

“No,” he says. “Why, could you tell?”

“ _N_ _o_ ,” Steve says. “No. Just...”

A thrill races through him at his own boldness and he says, “I just wonder if I’d be that good at it my first time.” 

He feels Billy go completely still next to him. He turns his head to look at him. 

“What?”

“I dunno, I guess… I thought it was sort of a one-way thing,” Billy says slowly. 

Heat floods Steve's face as he blushes. “If you don’t want—" 

"Jesus, Harrington," Billy snaps. "Of course I do. Of _course_ I do. I’m just. Fuck. You gotta give me a second to get my fuckin' head right.”

He closes his eyes and breathes for a minute, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he takes Steve’s hand and presses it to himself. 

“Just the thought of you with your mouth on me,” he says. “Just the _thought_ of it.”

He's hard as steel, radiating heat, and as Steve runs tentative fingers over the wet spot in his tented shorts he lets out a breath long and slow through gritted teeth. 

“You feel that?” he whispers. “Fuckin' practically creaming myself.” He laughs harshly. “Yeah, I fucking want it, Harrington. Christ.”

Steve sits up and looks down at him. 

“Well, then,” he says, and he hooks a finger into Billy's waistband and pulls his shorts off. 

He has to just sit there for a moment, just look at him. He’s breathing raggedly, hips already jerking on their own, desperate to be touched. Somehow this feels much more vulnerable than when Steve was the one naked on his back. Some deep instinct tells him Billy is much more dangerous like this, exposed and wanting. When he feels powerless he shuts down, lashes out, retreats into smirks and swagger and violence. Steve wants him soft, wants him to feel good. He can feel Billy's fear just under the skin and knows he's trying to let go, to give himself to the moment, and Steve doesn’t quite know how to show him he’s safe. He puts a hand on Billy’s hip and rubs, gentle, soothing. Billy’s eyes are shut tight, his whole body trembling. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s just me. The hottest guy in the whole school.” 

Billy snorts. 

“You wish, Harrington,” he says, and Steve feels the pulse under his hand start to slow.

“Just a man with the world's most beautiful hair,” he says. “That’s all. Don’t be intimidated.”

He can see Billy’s mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile, so he keeps teasing him. 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I am a mortal man. Try not to let my glory blind you.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Billy mutters, but the tension in his body is loosening. Steve keeps lightly stroking his hip, moving slowly inward. 

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he says, watching Billy’s face. “To be so pretty and also so clueless.” 

Billy does something that might be a laugh. 

“Don’t freak out,” Steve says, and before he loses his nerve he wraps his hand around Billy’s dick. Billy sucks in his breath sharply and his whole body goes stiff again. Steve sits very still, just holding him, and after a minute Billy exhales shakily. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Fuck. I—“

He crosses his arms over his face for a moment. "Sorry,” he says into the crook of an elbow. 

“Should I—" Steve starts to let go, ready to shift away. 

“No,” Billy says urgently, putting his hands down. “No, don't, please, just—"

He rocks his hips, thrusting up into Steve’s hand. Steve follows his rhythm. He’s nervous at first, afraid to do something wrong somehow, but Billy’s making soft animal noises in the back of his throat and clutching at the blanket beneath him and it makes Steve feel so fucking _good_ , so _right_. He’s trying to figure out how to make the transition from hand to mouth, distracted as he watches Billy’s face, and then Billy says _oh_ , and then he says _god,_ and then he bucks and comes all over Steve’s hand. 

Steve's breathing almost as hard as Billy is. His blood is thrumming in his veins, pounding in his ears, and he feels a strange, possessive satisfaction as he looks at Billy’s dazed expression. He wants more. 

He wipes his hand on a corner of the blanket and then pulls the edge of it over to clean Billy up. Billy startles when Steve touches him again, but then he relaxes into it, basking like a cat. Steve lays down next to him, watches him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I wanted to—"

“I know,” Billy says.

“Next time,” Steve says, trying for casual. 

Billy scrubs his hands through his hair, over his face, then gets up and starts pulling the blanket out from under Steve. He makes a sound of protest and Billy just says, “Come on.”

Steve holds his tongue until the Camaro pulls to a stop in front of his goddamn empty house. 

“Is it going to be like this every fucking time?” he demands, twisting to face Billy. “Because honestly I’d rather just stay home and beat off. Like, what the _fuck_ , Billy? Are we even friends? Why do you _do_ this?" 

Billy just looks at his hand on the steering wheel for a long moment. 

“I just don’t want you to mistake anything for... anything,” he says. “If I say the wrong thing, afterward.”

Steve turns away, looks out the windshield at the bugs circling under the streetlight.

“Well, don't worry,” he says. “You’ve made it pretty hard to misunderstand.”

He slams the car door too hard, stalks across the yard blinking back tears, and when he looks back before he goes inside Billy’s already gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day??????????


	6. if i bleed you'll be the last to know

He makes it five minutes from Harrington’s house before he has to pull over; he’s shaking so hard he can’t keep his foot on the pedal. He sits there in the dark and tries to breathe, and the scar on his chest feels like a gigantic animal closing its jaws around him. He can’t stop seeing the hurt on Harrington’s face, the flicker of hope in his eyes that Billy killed with a few words. He panicked, there’s no doubt about that. But he wasn’t prepared, _couldn’t_ have been prepared for what happened today. For all his stupid fantasies, the idea that Harrington would ever actually want him too never really crossed his mind. He thought he’d blow him, sure, but he’d close his eyes and imagine some girl, Wheeler or whoever, and that would be that. He was ready to be okay with that. But then Harrington asked— _asked_ , like Billy would ever fucking turn him down— 

He punches the steering wheel with his bad hand, just once, and the sharp pain in his wrist grounds him. Then he throws the car back in gear. He catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview as he pulls back onto the road and it’s grim, all dark circles and despair. He shakes his head, mutters _get it together, Hargrove_ , but his voice is too small and too weak and it just makes him feel worse. Fuck. _Fuck_. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, wincing as the pain in his chest expands with his lungs. He has to apologize to Harrington, he knows that, but he can’t—they can’t—he doesn’t know what the inside of Billy’s head is like. He doesn’t know about the dark, squirming things that crawl across the floor of his mind when he sleeps, the viciousness that lives right under his skin. He shouldn’t have to. 

The space heater has died at some point during the day—the power surge, he thinks—and his room is an icebox. He pulls on as many layers as he can and then crawls under the bed, into the nest of blankets that has become his refuge. The small space warms up quickly, but he can’t stop shivering, and eventually he drops into a thin, uneasy sleep.

He opens his eyes in an empty, echoing void. There is no light; the darkness presses against his skin like it’s trying to climb inside. He takes a step forward and hears a faint splash, looks down to see himself reflected in a flat sheet of water. _How—_

The reflection winks at him and then it’s gone, like it was never even there. He stumbles backward into something and turns to see himself, no longer a reflection, standing in front of him. 

“What the fuck—” he starts to say, and the mirror-Billy’s lips move with his. It—he can’t think of it as a he—it’s shaped like a human, but there’s a howling emptiness radiating from it that scares him to his core. It feels hungry. The mirror-Billy’s veins are black, spidering across its pale bluish skin, and its eyes are just deep, dark pits in its face. It takes a step toward him and he scrambles away, loses his footing. He braces himself for the fall, trying not to land on his bad wrist, but the water opens up beneath him and he plunges into it. 

The cold is immediate and unbearable, penetrating his bones, freezing him from the inside out. He can’t see anything, can’t find the surface. He opens his mouth to scream and the water rushes into him, choking him, worming its way down his throat like it’s alive. He can’t breathe. The scar across his chest is so cold it’s burning him, pulling tight like a wire wrapped around him, cutting _into_ him, and the water follows it under his skin, into his heart, and then the mirror-Billy wraps cold fingers around his wrists and drags him under.

He comes awake violently, hands already pressed over his mouth to muffle his scream, a reflex from the days when waking Neil meant a few hard shots to the kidneys. His face is wet with tears, his body curled into a fist. He can see his breath; when he looks at his hands they’re blue with cold and he thinks about the mirror-Billy and his stomach heaves. He struggles out from under the bed and vomits into his trash can, and then he looks up to see Harrington perched on the windowsill. 

Harrington is motionless, eyes wide, clearly horrified. Billy can only imagine what he looks like. He wonders how long Harrington’s been there, if he heard anything. He wonders if he can feel how cold it is. They look at each other for a long moment. Billy ducks his head, wiping at the half-frozen tears on his face. He realizes he’s still holding the fucking trash can and shoves it away. Harrington is still just staring at him. The silence is excruciating. He takes a breath through chattering teeth and then, with what little strength he has left, hisses, “ _What._ ”

Harrington unfolds himself from the windowsill in slow motion, one stupid sneakered foot at a time, and moves all the way down to the floor next to Billy.

“Um,” he whispers. “I was actually coming here to yell at you. Or something. I hadn’t really thought it through, but—this is—can I just—”

He shifts his weight slowly toward Billy until they’re side by side, and then he puts his arms awkwardly around Billy’s shoulders. 

“You’re freezing,” he says quietly. There’s something strange in his voice. “Look, Billy, I—” He pauses to wrap one of the blankets tighter around him. “Can we put a pause on me being mad at you, and you not wanting me around, because I can’t fight with you when you look like this. I just wanna help you.”

Billy feels another tear slip down his cheek and he nods, not trusting his voice. Harrington starts untying his shoes and Billy retreats back into his nest under the bed. Harrington waits until he’s lying still and then he scoots into the tiny space left next to him. 

“Okay, um,” Harrington says. Billy can feel the heat of him, so close but not close enough. “If I just—can I, um—”

He puts his arm across Billy, trying to keep their bodies apart. Billy shakes his head and Harrington feels it, starts to pull away. He forces himself to speak.

“No,” he says. “Closer.”

He reaches out from under the blanket and pulls Steve’s arm over him until he’s pressed right up against his back. The warmth is incredible; he wants to weep with gratitude. He nestles back into him, trying to get even closer, and Steve obliges, folding himself further around Billy. His shivers slow and then stop as they breathe together and the little space gets warmer. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

His voice is barely audible. Billy doesn’t answer for a long time, and when he does he’s sure Harrington’s fallen asleep. 

“Maybe,” he whispers. 

“I’m here,” Harrington murmurs. 

A lump rises in Billy’s throat and he tries to fight through it, but all he can get out is a strangled, “Thanks.”

He can feel Harrington waiting for him to say more, but he finds he can’t. He’s warm for the first time in what feels like weeks and he’s not alone. Exhaustion washes over him. 

“I might scream,” he whispers. “If I have another one.”

“Okay,” Steve says. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means for everything, the whole day, the entirety of his being, pretty much, but he doesn’t have any words left. He feels Harrington shake his head, just slightly.

“I’m here,” he says again. 

He wakes once, slowly, easily. He thinks he might have had another nightmare but he doesn’t remember it, and he’s still warm. Harrington is snoring gently, still curled around him, and Billy can’t help himself. He rolls over, nuzzles into the crook of his neck and breathes him in. He presses one leg between Steve’s, hooks them closer together, lets himself pretend.

When he wakes up again it’s morning, and he’s alone. 


	7. said 'i'm fine' but it wasn't true

This shit with Billy, it has to end. It has to... something. It's getting in Steve's head, making him feel things he shouldn't. Making him want things he can't have. And—on a totally different level—it's bringing everything back to him, the whole horrible month of June, everything that came before. He knows what happened to Billy—what he _did_ to Billy, what he _helped_ do to him—and he can't stop thinking about it, and then he thinks about the basement, and then he thinks about the monsters, and then he's back in the tunnels and this time he can't save Dustin. He can't save anyone. 

_Thwack._

He's in the woods behind his house hitting a tree with a baseball bat. Not _the_ bat, obviously, because the nails get stuck and the feeling of them coming loose from wood is too much like the feeling of them coming loose from bone. He's hitting the tree, and he's maybe crying a little bit, and he's so fucking lonely.

_Thwack._

Billy started it, he thinks. 

_Thwack._

Maybe he started it. Maybe the first time he got in Billy's face he was saying something he didn't even understand yet. 

_Thwack._

It doesn't matter, anyway. Not the way he wants it to. Being near Billy calms him down, makes him feel centered, and they're pretty good at getting each other off. Could get better, if Steve could keep his stupid heart out of it. That should be enough, should be _more_ than enough, and what else could there even be? Billy's a self-destructive mess, so closed off, so casually cruel. He's a live wire snapping across pavement. He's dangerous and he burns too bright and he's nearly impossible to get close to.

Steve _likes_ him. 

_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

He’s breathing so loud that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him until they’re right up next to him. He turns around and it's Billy, of course, because this summer they're apparently the only two people in all of Hawkins. He looks terrible, dark bruised hollows under both eyes, skin drawn tight over the knobs of his bones. Steve lets the bat drop to rest on the ground, keeping his hand on the end of it. He fights back a wave of emotion and looks at him. 

Billy clears his throat, scuffs his boot on the ground. Steve wants to hit him, or hug him, or both. 

"Thank you," he says after a minute. "For the other night."

Steve shrugs, not trusting himself to speak. 

Something sparks in Billy’s eyes and he says, "Look, Harrington, I—"

"Don't," Steve says. "I'm too tired."

Billy moves toward him fast, like a snake, crowding him backward until he’s up against a tree and they’re pressed together chest to chest, and then he puts one hand on the back of Steve’s neck and the other down his pants. He bites him hard, right where his neck meets his shoulder. Steve's knees buckle a little and he lets his head tip back, eyes closed, as Billy touches him. His breath starts coming in fast little pants and he lifts his hands like he's going to put them on Billy and instead, not even really knowing what he's going to do until he does it, he shoves him. Hard. Billy stumbles back, cheeks hectic with color, and he has the decency to look ashamed. 

"What are you _doing,_ " Steve hisses. "What the _fuck_ do you think—"

"I don’t know," Billy says wildly. "I don’t know. I mean, I do—but I can’t—I don’t—"

"Billy," Steve says, stepping toward him. Billy steps back. 

"Billy," Steve says again. He doesn’t move. Neither does Billy. They stare at each other. 

"Are your parents home?" Billy’s voice is thin and quiet.

"No," Steve says. His brain is furious, but his stupid body is not on the same page, and he can’t _believe_ how badly he just wants to go to him. 

"Can—"

"Fine," Steve snaps. "Come on." 

He grabs the bat from where he let it fall and stomps toward the house. He holds the door open for Billy, lets him walk up the stairs first. He’s wearing a sweater despite the heat. _He’s fighting it,_ Steve thinks. 

Billy walks into his room and then stops, weight on the balls of his feet like he's about to run. Steve turns on the lamp and then sits on the bed and stares at him.

"We have to talk about this," he says.

Billy's mouth crimps like he's going to cry.

"If I promise we can talk about it later," he says, not meeting Steve's eyes, "can we not talk about it right now?"

Steve sighs. 

"I just—okay, I know this sounds stupid, but I just—need you to touch me right now," Billy says. He scrubs one hand through his hair, curls ruffling up crazily. "Not—I mean, not like that." The ghost of a smirk. "Not _just_ like that. I need you to like... smother me. Does that—can you—"

He crosses the room and sits on the bed, then rolls onto his back and sort of waves his hands around. Steve sighs again and shifts so he's on his knees next to him, and then he stretches himself out above Billy. 

"Like this?" he asks, lowering himself down. He’s still keeping some weight on his hands, his knees, and Billy reaches up and pulls him down all the way. 

"I feel like you can’t breathe," Steve says, trying to find a comfortable place to put his head. 

"Yeah," Billy says, a little shallowly. "That's the idea." 

His hands are kneading Steve’s hips, flirting with the waist of his jeans. 

"Already feel calmer," he says. 

Steve only argues with himself for a minute before he slips his hands under Billy's sweater, hooks his arms underneath him and presses himself flat, ear to Billy's chest. His breathing smooths out, gets slower and more even, and Steve closes his eyes and holds him and tries not to think. 

After awhile Billy starts wriggling around and then neither of them are wearing shirts, and Steve doesn't know which one of them finally cracks but one of them does, and then they’re naked and Billy’s got his hand around both of them. Steve holds himself up with his forearms, panting into the curve of Billy’s neck, and Billy slides his other hand into Steve’s hair and pulls him closer. Neither of them speaks. Their breathing gets louder and faster and he feels Billy shake beneath him. He lifts his head to look at him and then Billy twists his wrist _just_ so and and they come together, eyes locked, close enough to kiss. Steve turns his head before he can do something stupid, drops heavily onto his side and stays there. He watches Billy catch his breath, studying the faint dusting of freckles across his nose that's only visible this close. After a minute he gets up, gets some water, gets them both cleaned up, and then he drapes himself back across Billy and tries to become dead weight once again. 

"Is this okay?" he asks after a minute. He has one thigh between Billy’s, arms limp at his sides, his head resting just below his chin. Billy's heart beats rabbit-quick against him.

"This is great," Billy murmurs. "This is perfect."

"What’s going on with you?" Steve whispers, not moving a muscle. "Are you okay?"

"No," Billy says. "No. But this is... helping. More than I could have imagined."

Steve closes his eyes again, trying to decide if Billy’s chest is cold to the touch.

"You can tell me," he says. "If you want."

Billy puts a hand in Steve’s hair and starts stroking it. The other hand comes to rest just next to Steve’s, so their pinkies are just barely touching.

"I feel weird," he says. "Bad. Like there’s a hole in my chest and my brain is disappearing into it. I keep having dreams about this, this like, mirror version of me, and it scares me so bad, I—I think it’s doing something to me somehow. I’m just so cold, all the time, and I keep trying to get warm and I can’t, and I feel like something is watching me half the time. I’m not... right. I didn’t feel like this before, I don't think. I don’t know if something happened to me before the accident, or maybe I broke something in my fuckin' brain during the crash, but—I can't—this is why—"

His breathing hitches. Steve very carefully lifts his hand and puts it on Billy’s chest, just over the scar.

"It’s okay," he says. He feels Billy shake his head.

"I know I’m not a good person," he whispers. "I never have been. But the mirror-Billy, he’s... he’s worse."

Steve wants to tell him, _needs_ to tell him, but a small traitorous part of him wonders if this is the Mind Flayer fishing, trying to find out what he knows. He wonders if it remembers him.

"You’re not a bad person, Billy," he says quietly.

"There is literally not one person in the world who would agree with you on that," Billy says.

"What about your mom?"

Steve sits up so he can look down at Billy. He puts his hand on his face, strokes his temple. He is deeply, acutely aware that this is far beyond the boundaries of fuck-buddies or friends or whatever they started out as, but he can't help himself. He can’t pretend like he doesn’t care. The silence stretches and he waits for Billy to shut down, push him away.

"She loved me," Billy says. He opens his eyes. "But she still left."

"That’s not your fault," Steve says. 

"Feels like it is. Your parents are gone all the time, doesn’t it make you feel like they don’t want you?" 

"Yes," Steve admits. "But I don’t want them around either."

"That’s the worst part," says Billy. "Even when you don’t like them it hurts to think they don’t love you."

"Max loves you," Steve says. Billy smiles painfully. 

"Max is afraid of me," he says. "I’ve barely seen her since I got home."

Steve wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He feels like such an _asshole_ and he just wants to tell Billy what happened, why he feels the way he does, why everything is weird and bad and wrong and maybe it will help, but he doesn’t know how. He puts his head back down, unable to keep making eye contact. 

"They’re kids," he says. "They’ve got shit to do. I haven’t seen Dustin since before he went to rocket camp or whatever."

"Yeah," Billy says halfheartedly. 

"I'm not exactly Mr. Popularity either, anymore," Steve says. "List of friends got pared way down when I didn't get into college."

He wonders if Billy realizes he’s drumming his fingers lightly down his spine, bumping over the vertebrae one at a time and sending shivers through him. He turns his head, rests his lips on Billy’s collarbone for one second and then turns it the other way. 

"Are we friends, Harrington?"

"Yeah," Steve says, and it almost doesn't hurt. "Aren't we?"

"Yeah," Billy says. There's something in his voice that Steve can't read. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think it was disappointment. Tears prickle at the backs of his eyes and he sits up, blinking fast. Billy catches his wrist.

"We don't have to keep doing this if you don't want," he says. 

"What?"

"This," Billy says. "Sex. Whatever."

Something in Steve shivers at the word _sex_ but it's immediately drowned out by a rush of anger.

"If _I_ don't want," he says, his voice icy. 

Billy lets go of him and sits up halfway. 

"What?"

"I'm not the one who stops talking to me every time we do something," Steve says. "If anyone doesn't want to keep doing this—"

"No," Billy says. "No, Harrington, fucking stop—"

"You're the one who said you didn't want me _getting any ideas_ ," he snaps. "You're the one who—you—"

He shuts his mouth. If he keeps talking he's going to cry and he is _not_ going to cry in front of fucking Billy Hargrove. He gets up and starts putting on his clothes.

"Harrington."

Steve looks at him. His eyes are red, and he just looks... beaten. Small. 

"I want you," Billy says. "Okay? I really—"

He presses his lips together. 

"I want you," he says again, stronger. "And being around you makes me feel like I'm okay. But I can't—I—I don't want more than that. So if that's not okay—"

"It's okay, Billy," Steve says. His heart aches. He doesn't know when it happened, but Billy has become someone he needs. In whatever capacity he's willing to give. Steve will be okay with it, _has_ to be okay with it, because he'd rather have this than nothing at all. 

He forces a smile and throws Billy his shirt. 

"Let's go get high," he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're going to physically hurt each other in the next chapter so cw for that! also, welcome back, happy quarantine, keep your boots tight, keep your gun close, die with your mask on if you've got to, here's the traffic


	8. no rules in breakable heaven

_Hi Max  
_ _it's me  
_ _I'm sorry I'm always an asshole and a bad brother  
_ _I want to do better  
_ _if you want to go get ice cream or something I'll pay and you can bring Lucas or whoever  
_ _but you don't have to  
_ _but I'm sorry and I miss you_

He signs it with a small, slightly wobbly smiley face. Then he crumples it up and throws it into the trash. Then he sits there and stares at the trash can for a minute, and then he gets up and fishes it out and shoves it under Max's door, and then he leaves the house.

He makes his way toward the outskirts of town, listening to Springsteen with the windows down, and he feels almost okay. He's only a few miles from the quarry when a thunderbolt of pain spikes directly into the center of his brain. He slams on the brakes and slews the car sideways, leaning the other way to counterbalance, and something about it is horribly familiar and he thinks _this is how it happened_ and then the car stops moving. The pain in his head is so strong that the pressure of it is blacking out his vision, pressing on the backs of his eyes. He gets out of the car and staggers a few feet, unsure what to do. He drops to his knees and waits, breathing raggedly, until the pain recedes. Through the trees he can see an old building set back off the road and he wants to go into it badly. It feels wrong, and it scares him, but he gets to his feet and starts to move toward it. He's almost across the road when he stops and hisses, "What the _fuck,_ " and then bolts back to the car. He drives back into the city slowly, waiting for the pain to hit him again. 

He goes to the high school, pathetic as it is, because he doesn’t know where else to go. He climbs the chain-link fence onto the football field and rolls himself under the bleachers. He lays there for awhile just studying the clouds, the shapes. He misses the weight of Harrington on top of him. 

“Hello,” says a voice. He opens his eyes to see a girl about Max's age studying him. 

“Do you remember me?” she asks.

He sits up, looks at her harder. She kneels in front of him. He feels weirdly breathless, like he wants to get as far away from her as he can. He wants to hug her. 

“No,” he says. “Sorry.”

“You saved my life,” she says. 

“Like at the pool? That’s no biggie, kid. But you’re welcome.”

She stares at him, and her eyes seem too old somehow. Unsettles him. 

“You look sick,” she says. He has a flash of her in a raincoat standing next to—

“You’re friends with Max, right? You're one of Harrington's little kids?”

She smiles. "Yes."

"How... how is Max?" he asks, feeling very small. "I haven't seen her."

"Max is good," she says. He has the weirdest feeling that he knows this girl from before somehow; a memory of her on the beach keeps surfacing out of nowhere.

"Have you ever been to California?" he asks.

"No," she says. 

He shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm having kind of a weird day. Sorry."

She reaches out and touches his chest, right over his scar, and suddenly he's on his knees above her, hands around her throat, some kind of weird blue light all around them. Her nails scratch at his skin and he can hear his mother somewhere in the distance crying. He blinks and the vision is gone. He jerks away from her, horrified, and puts his hand over his scar as he tries to quiet the sudden rage he feels. He wants to kill her. He doesn't know why, but he thinks the mirror-Billy might.

"You should go," he says, avoiding her gaze. "It's not really safe to be around me. Max will tell you."

She stands and turns to leave. "Don't worry," she says. "You won't be lonely."

His eyes flood with tears. He puts his head in his hands and cries, sitting there under the bleachers. Even in his darkest, most fucked-up places, he's never wanted to hurt a _kid._ Something inside him is broken beyond repair. 

"Hargrove!"

He jerks his head up, wipes his eyes quickly. Tommy Hagan is jogging toward him across the field.

"What is _up,_ dude, you look like shit," he says, offering Billy a hand up. "Listen, party tonight at my place, okay? Last time my parents will be gone before everyone leaves for college, so we're gonna rage."

Billy blinks a few times, still catching up to the conversation. "Okay," he says.

"Really?" Tommy's face lights up. "I sort of thought you might not wanna come. Awesome. Bring chicks, okay?"

"Aren't you and Carol—"

"Don't be a buzzkill, Hargrove," Tommy says. "Just bring 'em. See ya tonight!"

He punches Billy on the shoulder and lopes away across the field.

"Asshole," Billy mutters. He can't believe how much time he wasted being that kid's friend. He can't believe either of them chose each other over Harrington. 

He wipes at his eyes again, pointedly not wondering if Steve will be there tonight. He decides he'll go to the party. He'll be an asshole, he'll get drunk, maybe he'll get laid. Maybe that will stop the noise in his head for a moment. 

All he can do is try.

* * *

Of course Steve's at the fucking party.

Billy walks in the door and his eyes find him immediately, like he's a fucking magnet, and Steve makes eye contact with him for a fraction of a second and then goes back to talking to whatever girl he's got in front of him. Billy's world flashes red for a moment; the word _mine_ pulses in his head. He shakes it away. Harrington's not his. Harrington can talk to whatever little bimbo he wants for as long as he wants, and Billy definitely does not care, and he's almost got himself convinced of that by the time he makes it into the kitchen.

He gets a little bit of a vibe off the guy who's filling cups; he lets their fingers brush as he takes his. He's... fine-looking. Billy downs the beer and holds the cup out for a refill, curls his tongue out just enough to dab at the corner of his mouth, watches the guy watch.

Maybe this is the first step to something, he thinks. Maybe if he makes out with a dude at a party, lets the chips fall, maybe the girls will leave him alone. Maybe assholes like Tommy Hagan will stop following him around like he hung the moon, like being a fucking bully is something to aspire to. He puts his hand on the guy's shoulder and squeezes, lets his fingers trail away, then wanders back out into the living room. 

Harrington is tugging at the end of a lock of the girl's hair. Billy's grip on the cup tightens and he hears the plastic crumple. He makes his way across the room, hugging the wall, and as he navigates the crush of bodies a hand snags his wrist. He whips around, ready to snap, and meets Robin's eyes. 

"He doesn't like her," she says.

Billy yanks his hand away. "I don't care."

She gives him a look that's half amusement, half pity, and says, "Okay, Billy."

She steps forward and takes the dented cup from his hand.

"How do you know?" he asks, hating himself for it.

"I can tell when he's flirting just to flirt," she says. "Plus—"

She bites her lip and drains the cup. Billy lets out a tiny breath.

"You're both being really stupid," she says in a rush, chewing on the plastic rim.

"What?"

"Just..." She rubs her eyes. "For people who don't care about each other, you sure stay tangled up."

As they watch, Steve detaches himself from the girl and moves toward the kitchen, swaying slightly. Robin presses the cup into Billy's hand and he takes it. Keg guy is still in the kitchen, still giving him the eyes, and their hands touch for a little longer this time. Then Steve smacks into him and he drops his beer. He watches it foam all over both of their shoes.

"Watch it, Hargrove," Steve snaps. His eyes are bright and drunk and a little crazy. "Okay? I said _watch it_."

Then he shoves him.

Billy stumbles back, hands raised. "What the fuck, Harrington?" he asks. The genuine hurt in his voice makes him ashamed. He wants to hit something, and then he sees the flint-edge spark in Steve's eyes, the set of his jaw and the way he's flexing his hands, and he knows what he's doing.

He shoves him back to be sure, to give him an out, and Harrington takes a swing at him. Billy ducks and counters, lands a glancing blow on his sternum, and Steve bares his teeth and grins at him and says "C'mon, Billy, are you scared?" and then they're fighting. Billy gets in two good jabs to the chin, and then he hooks a foot around Steve's ankle and dumps him to the floor. A space forms around them as Steve struggles to get up. Billy knocks him down again—never plants his fucking _feet—_ and they roll over each other, grappling for leverage. They crash into a coffee table and Tommy yells, "Hey! Take it outside! Take it the _fuck_ outside!" and then he's got his hands on Billy, hauling him backwards. Steve snarls, " _Don't touch him_ ," as he struggles up off the floor and his voice is full of rage and possessiveness, and they stumble out onto the lawn. Steve yanks Billy's hair, trying to pull him to the ground, trying to put his face in the dirt, and Billy grins up at him and says, "You fuckin' fight dirty, Harrington," and then he sucker punches him.

Steve drops to his knees, wheezing, and Billy puts the heel of his shoe on his chest and pushes until he's lying on the ground beneath him. He can see the people in the house, faces against the window like they're in a fishbowl. While Billy's distracted Steve grabs his leg and rolls and he falls hard, the back of his head thudding into the grass, and then they're back to the stupid wrestling. Billy's stronger than him and Steve knows it, so he holds him close, keeping him from using his arms, getting a good hit in. Billy's getting tired and his scar burns cold across his chest with each breath. Harrington's eyes are feverish, almost manic, and Billy knows what he's feeling. He gathers the last of his strength and hits Steve right in the face, feels his lip split as his teeth clack together and his head snaps back. Steve goes boneless, slides sideways to lie motionless in the grass. Billy sits up fast.

"Steve," he says, leaning over him. "Hey."

He opens his eyes and smiles dopily. His teeth are slicked with blood. 

"Shit, Harrington, I thought I fucking killed you," Billy says. 

"You thought you _killed_ me?" Steve laughs. "Come on."

He sits up slowly, touching his mouth. "You got me good, though."

Billy brushes some of the grass off his shirt, finds a half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He holds it up. Steve tilts his head toward the fucking gazebo that Tommy owns, because of course he does, and Billy follows him over there. 

"You feel better?" Billy asks, lighting up. He takes a drag. 

"What?"

Billy hands him the cigarette and touches his cheek, lightning fast. 

"Seems like you were trying to get fucked up, Harrington," he says.

"If I was, I would have picked someone better to fight," Steve says around the cigarette. He takes it from his mouth, thinks twice, takes another drag.

Billy has to laugh. "I think I did all right," he says. 

One side of Steve's mouth tugs into a little smile. "I guess you did."

Billy looks at him, his bruised lips, his messed-up hair. "Are you okay?"

"No," Steve says. "I'm really not. But it helps if I can stop thinking for awhile."

"That's why you wanted to fight."

Steve doesn't say anything. 

"Jesus, Harrington, there are so many other things a person could do to distract you—"

"This one doesn't hurt as much if you leave after," he says. He tries to play it off like it's a joke, but the fucking look on his face. Billy hates himself more than he'd thought possible. A thousand things run through his mind and he doesn't say any of them, and he doesn't deserve to. 

Steve leans his head back against the railing of the gazebo, rolls it sideways so his cheek is resting on the wood. Billy does the same and they sit there looking at each other. Steve takes another hit off the cigarette and scoots closer. Billy opens his mouth for the smoke. It's not a kiss, but it makes him realize how bad he wants it to be. Steve leans in further and Billy pulls back.

"You're drunk," he says. 

"You are," Steve says.

"You're drunker than me," Billy says. "I can't—"

"Can't what," Steve says. 

"I don't want to, um. Take advantage."

Steve laughs.

"I don't even know what you want to do, Billy," he says, rolling his head back to look at the stars. "Take advantage of what?"

"Of you, you idiot," Billy says. "I want—I don’t—"

"Just go take two shots," Steve says, closing his eyes. "Then we'll be the same amount of drunk and you can do whatever it is you're having trouble with."

Billy gets up without a word and walks toward the house.

"You didn't have any trouble fighting me when I'm drunk!" Steve yells after him. "Just saying!"

Wheeler's in the kitchen making cocktails, and he snags a bottle of something from her little table and upends it into his cup. He's about halfway through it when he realizes she's standing right in front of him. She's smaller than she looks, which is saying something. Her eyes are hard as she squints up at him.

“I don’t know who’s doing what to whom or when or where, but I know when Steve Harrington’s got it bad for someone,” she says. “And I know that if you care about him _at all—_ ” she jabs her finger into his chest— “you need to leave him the hell alone.”

If she had slapped him in the face it would have been less of a surprise. He gets enough control over himself to say, "What?"

"I'm not stupid, Billy," she says. "And I mean it. Leave him alone."

“Why?” he asks blurrily. The alcohol is beginning to hit him. 

“Because you nearly killed him,” she says, “to start with.”

He makes a motion like _go on_. 

“No matter what happens between you,” she says, “it’s going to hurt him so much worse. Do you get me?”

“What if he doesn’t get hurt?” Billy counters. 

“He will,” she says. “There’s—there’s stuff you don’t know, Billy. It’s not my place to say but—"

"You hurt him," he says. 

"I know I did," she snaps. "That's exactly why I'm—I know what he's—"

Her cheeks are flushed with anger.

"Just trust me, Billy," she says. 

"Nothing's even happening," he says. 

"I know that's not true, and if that's how you feel then all the more reason to stop."

"I—"

What can he say? She's right. He bites his lip hard as a lump rises in his throat and turns away from her. He rummages in the freezer and comes up with a bag of frozen peas, then takes the bottle off her table and leaves his cup. He doesn't look back as he walks outside, but he can feel her eyes on him.

“Wheeler thinks I’m gonna break your heart,” he says, trying to sound casual as he flops back down on the bench next to Steve. “Here. For your face.”

Steve takes the bag of frozen peas and presses it briefly to his cheek before letting it drop. Billy picks it up and just holds it on Steve’s face himself.

“Wheeler like Nancy?” Steve grins, then winces.

“The very one,” Billy says. 

Steve snorts. “She breaks my heart one time and now she thinks anyone can do it.”

“So no danger here, then.”

“Oh, you could absolutely break my heart,” Steve says, his eyes suddenly soft. "But I know this doesn't mean anything, so you're safe."

Billy looks away for a second, stunned by how much that hurts. Steve puts his hand on Billy's, the one holding the peas.

"Although," he says. "I did want to say."

Billy looks at him. 

"I wouldn't, like, think you liked me if we kissed."

Cold blooms in his chest, followed by warmth. 

"It doesn't have to mean anything. I just want—"

He takes Billy's hand away from his face, holds it in both of his and stares down at it. 

"I want—if we're ever even going to do this again, I want—"

Billy can see him blushing. 

"We don't have to, like, be going steady," Steve says. "I just want to be close to you. I just think it would feel better to do—whatever—if we also—"

He looks back at Billy and it's clear how much it's costing him to say this.

"Or not," he says. He lets go of Billy's hand. He starts to stand up. Billy grabs his wrist and pulls him back down, almost into his lap, so that their faces are barely an inch apart. He puts his hand on Steve's face. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Billy says.

"Then don't."

Steve stares at him, daring him, and Billy is so tired of pretending. He puts his thumb on Steve's lower lip, pulls down, listens to the hiss of breath as he inhales, and then he crushes his lips against Steve's so hard their teeth knock together. The taste of blood blooms on his tongue as he winds his arms around Steve and pulls him closer, as Steve climbs into his lap and kisses him back. It's almost like they're fighting again, the way Steve's arms are locked behind his neck, the way he's pulling his hair. It's...good. It's really, really good. He can feel Steve smiling against him and it pulls at something in his heart like a fishhook. His tongue is in Steve's mouth and it's warm and soft and he wants to climb inside him. Steve rocks down into Billy's lap and makes a small sound in the back of his throat and Billy grabs at his face, his collar, anything and everything to get him closer. _Mine,_ he thinks again, stroking his neck, squeezing gently, listening for the wet catch in his breath that means he likes it. He grabs him around the waist and stands, pulls him down the driveway by the hand to where the Camaro is parked, pushes him into the backseat without ever letting go of him. _T_ _his was a fucking mistake_ , he thinks as he licks back into his mouth. _I want this, I want all of it, I want all of_ him, _and I can't fucking have him._ They get out of their clothes somehow, the windows fogging around them, and Steve folds himself into the tiny space between Billy's knees and starts sucking his dick, and it's a little clumsy and completely perfect, and Billy wants to tell him everything, exactly how he feels, and all of it tangles up and lodges behind his lips and what he eventually manages to say is: "I want you to fuck me."

Steve goes still, lifts his head real slow. He looks at Billy, lips parted, and breathes, "What?"

_Fuck. Shit. Fuck._ Maybe that's too far, maybe that's not something Steve ever wanted, maybe he wants it but not with Billy, maybe—

"Billy," Steve says. He leans forward, puts his hand on Billy's chest. "Did—do you mean it?"

Billy thinks about taking it back and then says, "Yeah." He feels horribly exposed, naked and vulnerable as he looks at Steve's face and tries to figure out what's happening in his head. Steve closes his eyes and shakes his head and Billy feels his stomach drop. 

"Do you not want to?" he forces himself to ask. No sense drawing it out.

Steve opens his eyes and looks at him and it's too direct, too much, and Billy drops his gaze.

"Billy," he says again. "I want to."

Billy's heart starts slamming against his ribcage. 

"God," Steve says. "I really want to."

"Okay, so—"

"I'm just..." Steve pauses, absently petting Billy's thigh as he forms the words. 

"I don't know if I can," he says at last. "Without, you know. Wanting it to be...something." He's almost talking to himself. "I haven't—I've only slept with Nancy, you know, and I was in love with her." He tenses up. "Not—shit, I'm not saying—I'm not—fucking _whiskey_ ," he hisses. 

Billy is basically holding his breath at this point, trying to figure out what he's saying, because he can't be saying what it sounds like he's saying—

"I guess I'm afraid it would mean something," Steve says. "To me. Even if I try not to."

Billy closes his eyes. 

"I could try," Steve says. "I want to."

Billy keeps his eyes closed as he says, "It could. Mean something."

He feels Steve stop breathing for a second, hears him swallow hard. He bites down hard on his lip and opens his eyes and Steve is staring at him. Just staring. So openly, so... stunned. Like he doesn't believe what he's hearing. His hands tighten on Billy's thighs.

"Say something," Billy says quietly, trying to smile.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches up just a little and Billy feels a stab of hope. He puts his hand on top of Steve's. 

"I—"

There's a knock on the window and both of them yelp and duck.

"I'm not looking," Robin says loudly. "I'm just here because people are starting to leave and they're going to walk past the car, so I figured I would come rescue you from that, so if you could both stop doing whatever you're doing and put on whatever you're not wearing and someone throw me the keys, I'll drive us all home." 

"I'm going to kill you," Steve says, fumbling for his shirt. 

"You're _welcome_ ," she says. Billy can see her turned away from the window, holding her hand out. He finds the keys and hands them to Steve, and he cranks the window down an inch and shoves them out. She ducks and he hears her feeling around on the ground for them. He's almost all the way back into his pants when the driver door opens.

"If I see either of you naked I will drive this car into a tree," she says, sliding into the seat. "Can I move this mirror, or will it result in all of us dying?"

"We're _dressed,_ Robs," Steve says. He's trying to sound angry, but it's not working, and the look on his face starts Billy laughing, and then they're both just leaning on each other giggling as Robin thrashes the gearshift around. Billy can't even bring himself to be concerned about the sound the car is making. He's close against Steve and he's warm and solid and he's got his face pressed into Billy's shoulder as he laughs. Billy turns his head so his lips just barely brush across Steve's hair and then, feeling scared and brave and possibly totally insane, he reaches out and takes his hand. Steve lifts his head and they look at each other and then he smiles and squeezes Billy's hand. It takes everything in Billy's power not to kiss him for real, with meaning and feelings and fucking _love_ , and he turns and looks out the window so he doesn't do anything stupid. Steve puts his head back down, nuzzles a little bit into his neck. He could die right now and be okay with it. 

"So," Robin says, and Billy tenses for an interrogation. "What's Carol's deal?"

**Author's Note:**

> my beautiful trash son will have a happy ending *and* i'll die trying.


End file.
